I suited up. My job wasn't to destroy the anomaly. You can't destroy a mathematical proof. My job was to arbitrate —to enter the logic, speak to its internal consistency, and convince it to resolve itself. Failing that, I'd negotiate terms of containment.

Outside, the Gray Boroughs were quiet. For now, GCADAS had found its equilibrium. But I knew, in some forgotten line of code, a small heuristic rabbit was running a new proof—one about forgiveness, and initial conditions, and the radical, illogical persistence of a child's love.

"Where's the source?" I asked.